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unknownbinaries: Smell of Sense
Sep. 30th, 2009 10:39 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wolven7The Dresden Dolls - [Girl Anachronism (Live)]--- It was, he reaslised later, the smell of dessicating leaves, in the early autumn. It was the smell of things dying, in the most pleasant, fragrant way imaginable. A spicy, cooling, comforting smell, not unlike being wrapped in a warm blanket, while sitting on the front porch of your house, at 6.30 am. (KMFDM - [Yohoho]). And then the breeze picks up. That crisp edge, that circulating, seemingly directionless clearing cold, the one that suddenly cuts right through and into you...
She smelled like circuitry trying to burn, like her body was made of wires and chips that weren't set up to handle her level of current, and she was always on the verge of burning, crackling through. Sometimes there was a bright high note of sweat and electricity. (Miranda Sex Garden - [Serial Angels]). And now, at the beginning, it was finally cooling down; it was just about to that place, again, where she could breath, move, and work as quickly as she wanted and needed to, without worrying about setting herself on fire. As the crystaline structure shaped and moved the smell of the air, he could see her taking it in, and he knew that her brain wasn't overclocking; it wasn't working over capacity, at all. That there was no "over" to her capacity, just a limitless ability to adapt, expand, and transform.
Tom Waits - [Hold On]--- He could smell that things were ready to burn, again, that everything was spiced and dry, and he knew that she had the spark to set things aflame.
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Written forunknownbinaries, because she wrote this, for me, and I still owed her, because I'm horrible: http://unknownbinaries.livejournal.com/770288.html
And because, [Five] years ago,thenowhere wrote the following: "Write something for me. Just for me. Post it in your journal so everyone else can see it, too. A sentence, a paragraph. Nanofiction. Short story. A scene, dialogue, a picture described, a moment, anything. Long or short. But it's got to be just for me. Tell the world you wrote it for me, even. Mine.
"Then feel free to put this up in your own journal, and I'll reciprocate."
The Art of Noise - [Close (To the Edit)]--- Good morning.
She smelled like circuitry trying to burn, like her body was made of wires and chips that weren't set up to handle her level of current, and she was always on the verge of burning, crackling through. Sometimes there was a bright high note of sweat and electricity. (Miranda Sex Garden - [Serial Angels]). And now, at the beginning, it was finally cooling down; it was just about to that place, again, where she could breath, move, and work as quickly as she wanted and needed to, without worrying about setting herself on fire. As the crystaline structure shaped and moved the smell of the air, he could see her taking it in, and he knew that her brain wasn't overclocking; it wasn't working over capacity, at all. That there was no "over" to her capacity, just a limitless ability to adapt, expand, and transform.
Tom Waits - [Hold On]--- He could smell that things were ready to burn, again, that everything was spiced and dry, and he knew that she had the spark to set things aflame.
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Written for
unknownbinaries, because she wrote this, for me, and I still owed her, because I'm horrible: http://unknownbinaries.livejournal.com/770288.htmlAnd because, [Five] years ago,
thenowhere wrote the following: "Write something for me. Just for me. Post it in your journal so everyone else can see it, too. A sentence, a paragraph. Nanofiction. Short story. A scene, dialogue, a picture described, a moment, anything. Long or short. But it's got to be just for me. Tell the world you wrote it for me, even. Mine."Then feel free to put this up in your own journal, and I'll reciprocate."
The Art of Noise - [Close (To the Edit)]--- Good morning.
